


sunlight and wishful thoughts

by n_u_t_m_e_g



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian Being Dorian, Dorian swoons, Dorian waxes poetic, Lavellan is oblivious, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_u_t_m_e_g/pseuds/n_u_t_m_e_g
Summary: Dorian watches, and falls ever-so-madly in love.





	sunlight and wishful thoughts

It’s come to Dorian’s attention that Hanin Lavellan is terribly ignorant.  
Whether it be to social cues or inappropriate times for sarcasm, Lavellan seems to allow certain things to soar over his freckled head; his own beauty and the effects of it included.

Dorian finds it very hard to believe that one who causes so many to swoon could be so very _unaware_ to the fact. It’s no surprise to see a crowd gather to see Hanin return from a mission; throngs of men and women alike, gathering en masse to catch a glance of Lavellan’s face. And _oh,_ is he ignorant. He walks past them, stopping periodically to discuss something with a soldier or a merchant with a serious, attentive face and Dorian is absolutely beside himself with how much he adores the man.  
And Dorian is maybe, just _slightly_ afraid to admit that he is one of those who gathers, to watch Lavellan. And does Dorian ever like to watch.

Sometimes, it’s on a mission, travelling through Thedas on their journey to defeat Corypheus. Lavellan will scout ahead, body low to the ground and blades grasped tight in his hands. He moves like water- lithe and fluid in a way Dorian can never hope to emulate. Lavellan is all hips and shoulders, darting in and out of sight, eyes peeled for danger. Sometimes, in those moments, Dorian finds himself almost too wrapped up in watching- Lavellan’s angled eyes dark and alert, looking from place to place. Dorian watches, too, of course; never too much of a love-sick fool to watch for something Hanin might not see. And _Maker_ those are the moments that steal his breath- when a Venatori spell grazes just _barely_ too close or when a blade lodges itself in a shoulder or thigh, bright red blood flowing against Lavellan’s pale skin. And while Dorian is not oft to make a fuss, he’s only a tad embarrassed to admit he’s the first to Lavellan’s side to heal those wounds; even if his healing magic isn’t quite his strongest skill.  
That evening, he watches Lavellan at camp. They’re sore and tired from a long day of fighting and moving, and often Dorian takes long moments to admire the flashes of Lavellan’s face in the firelight.  
Dorian is no man to _swoon_ \- but watching Lavellan recline against a log, long, tumbling mess of inky hair pooling about his shoulders, Dorian might find himself swooning just a little bit. Hanin’s eyes are heavy lidded, somewhere between sleep and alertness, the deep, stormy grey of his irises reflecting the embers of the fire. He almost cannot contain a school-boy sigh as he watches Hanin take a long drag off of his pipe, the smoke curling and masking his angular face for _just_ a moment too long. And he certainly _does not_ sigh out loud, he tells himself, even when Cassandra glances over at him with knowing eyes.  
Sometimes, when Dorian watches Lavellan, he finds himself growing hot with jealousy. Hanin may be oblivious, but Dorian is not; he does not miss the way many nobles watch Lavellan- hungry, possessive eyes roaming what is _not_ theirs, admiring Lavellan like they’d admire a fine animal. Like he’s less than a man. Dorian does not miss the way certain nobles leer at the gentle sway of Hanin’s hips- old, disgusting Lords and Ladies looking at Lavellan like something to be bought.

Dorian’s favorite time to watch Lavellan, however, is when they catch moments alone.  
The evening is cool and the sun sets in warm reds outside of Lavellan’s stained glass doors. Hanin has opened the set of doors facing the sun, the cool, autumn breeze gently fluttering piles of paperwork on Hanin’s desk.

Lavellan is reclined in an iron tub, head leaning against the rim, tattooed arms hanging off the sides.The glittering colors from the stained glass cast lovely little shadows on the elf’s content face, the shadows of his long, raven-colored lashes dancing on the angles of his freckled cheekbones. His hair clings to his face and Dorian’s heart absolutely _does_ _not_ skip a beat.  
There’s no denying that Dorian is a fool in love, he silently admits to himself. Something within him fears that statement, years of conditioning grabbing his heart and squeezing it with cold hands. But then, Maker, _then_ Hanin stands, and the setting sun lines him in gold; he’s all pale skin and dark hair and and freckles and Dorian’s breath catches in his throat because those lovely red tattoos wind all along Hanin’s body down to his toes and each and every time Dorian sees him it’s like seeing him for the first time.  
Water runs down Lavellan’s body in slow rivulets, and his hair curls over his shoulders and down his back like rivers of black sky, and Dorian must be obvious in his staring because a small smile spreads on Hanin’s wine-red lips.  
Dorian absolutely _cannot_ believe that the ignorance Lavellan plays isn’t just a farce when, after Lavellan dries, he sits on the edge of the bed and plaits his hair with those long, delicate fingers, stormy eyes soft and knowing as he watches Dorian watch him.

“Surely,” Hanin says, with a voice like water over stones. “You realize your staring is wholly unnecessary,” the elf finishes his braiding, tying it off with a leather strap, tossing the heavy plait unceremoniously over a pale shoulder. “You look at me like I’m the finest painting you’ve ever seen.”  
Dorian cannot quell the bubble of laughter that rises in his throat. He takes Lavellan by the shoulders and drags him close, and the elf’s skin is still balmy from the hot water.

“Oh, you poor deluded thing,” Dorian smiles. “ _You_ act like you aren’t the loveliest creature in the world.”  
And the shy doubt of the smile that blossoms of Lavellan’s soft lips is almost enough to make Dorian run to the balcony and shout his love for all to hear, just so the love-struck crowd would know the _he_ is the one to win the prize of Lavellan’s affection. _Almost_. 


End file.
